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SLEEP-BOOK

SOME OF THE POETRY OF SLUMBER

COLLECTED BY

LEOLYN LOUISE EVERETT

NEW YORK

THE WATKINS COMPANY

1910

Three hundred and twenty copies of this book have been printed on
hand-made Van Gelder paper, for The Watkins Company, at the press of
Styles & Cash New York, and type distributed.

This book is No.

To

ETHEL DU FRÉ HOUSTON

who has brought the joy and beauty of dream into so many lives




    SLEEP-BOOK




    I.

    Peace, peace, thou over-anxious, foolish heart,
    Rest, ever-seeking soul, calm, mad desires,
    Quiet, wild dreams--this is the time of sleep.
    Hold her more close than life itself. Forget
    All the excitements of the day, forget
    All problems and discomforts. Let the night
    Take you unto herself, her blessed self.
    Peace, peace, thou over-anxious, foolish heart,
    Rest, ever-seeking soul, calm, mad desires,
    Quiet, wild dreams--this is the time of sleep.

    _Leolyn Louise Everett_.




    II.

    Sleep, softly-breathing god! his downy wing
    Was fluttering now.

    _Samuel T. Coleridge_.


    I lay in slumber's shadowy vale

    _Samuel T. Coleridge_.




    III.

    And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
    A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down
    And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft,
    Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
    Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.
    No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
    As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne,
    Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet lyes
    Wrapt in eternal! silence farre from enimyes.

    _Edmund Spenser_.




    IV.

    The waters murmuring,
    With such cohort as they keep
    Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.
    _Il Penseroso_.

    _John Milton_.




    V.
    Ye spotted snakes with double tongue,
     Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
    Newts and blind-worms do no wrong,
     Come not near our fairy queen.
      Philomel, with melody
      Sing in our sweet lullaby,
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby;
      Never harm.
      Nor spell nor charm,
    Come our lovely lady nigh
    So goodnight with lullaby.

    _William Shakespeare_.




    VI.

    Sleep, Silence child, sweet father of soft rest,
    Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
    Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
    Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;
    Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
    Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possessed.

    _William Drummond of Hawthornden_.




    VII.

    Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
     Lock me in delight awhile;
     Let some pleasing dreams beguile
     All my fancies; that from thence
     I may feel an influence,
    All my powers of care bereaving!

    Though but a shadow, but a sliding
     Let me know some little joy!
     We that suffer long annoy
     Are contented with a thought
     Through an idle fancy wrought;
    O let my joys have some abiding!

    _John Fletcher_.




    VIII.

    But still let Silence trew night-watches keepe,
    That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
    And tymely Sleep, when it is time to sleep,
    May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
    The whiles an hundred little winged loves
    Like divers-fethered doves,
    Shall fly and flutter round about your bed.

    _Edmund Spenser_.




    IX.

    Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
    Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
    On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
    In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
    Or painful to his slumbers,--easy, sweet
    And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
    Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
    Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain,
    Into this prince gently, oh gently, slide
    And kiss him into slumbers like a bride.

    _John Fletcher_.




    X.

         God hath set
    Labor and rest, as day and night, to men
    Successive, and the timely dew of sleep
    Now falling with soft, slumberous weight inclines
    Our eyelids.

    _John Milton_.




    XI.

    Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast'
    Would I were sleep and peace so sweet to rest

    _William Shakespeare_.


         The innocent sleep,
    Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, t
    The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
    Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
    Chief nourisher in life's feast.

    _William Shakespeare_.




    XII.

    Come, Sleep. O, Sleep! The certain knot of peace,
    The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
    The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
    The indifferent judge between the high and low.

    _Sir Philip Sidney_.





    XIII.

    Close thine eyes, and sleep secure;
    Thy soul is safe, thy body sure.
    He that guards thee, he that keeps,
    Never slumbers, never sleeps.
    A quiet conscience in the breast
    Has only peace, has only rest.
    The wisest and the mirth of kings
    Are out of tune unless she sings:
    Then close thine eyes in peace and sleep secure,
    No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

    _Charles I, King of England_.




    XIV.

         Oh, Brahma, guard in sleep
    The merry lambs and the complacent kine,
    The flies below the leaves and the young mice
    In the tree roots, and all the sacred flocks
    Of red flamingo; and my love Vijaya,
    And may no restless fay, with fidget finger
    Trouble his sleeping; give him dreams of me.

    _William B Yeats_.




    XV.

    Solemnly, mournfully,
      Dealing its dole,
    The Curfew Bell
      Is beginning to toll.

    Cover the embers,
      And put out the light;
    Toil comes with morning,
      And rest with the night.

    Dark grow the windows,
      And quenched is the fire;
    Sound fades into silence,--
      All footsteps retire.

    No voice in the chambers,
      No sound in the hall!
    Sleep and oblivion
      Reign over all!

    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_.




    XVI.

    Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound
    Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught;
    Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought
    As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound
    The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound

    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_.




    XVII.

    Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world,
    A boundary between the things mis-named
    Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
    And a wide realm of wild reality.
    And dreams in their development have breath,
    And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
    They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
    They take a weight from off our waking toils.
    They do divide our being; they become
    A portion of ourselves as of our time,
    And look like heralds of eternity;--

    _Lord Byron_.




    XVIII.

    O gentle Sleep! Do they belong to thee,
    These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
    To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
    A captive never wishing to be free.

    _William Wordsworth_.




    XIX.

    O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
    Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
    Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
    Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
    O soothest Sleep! if so it pleases thee, close,
    In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
    Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
    Around my bed its lulling charities;
    Then save me, or the passed day will shine
    Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
    Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
    Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
    Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
    And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

    _John Keats_.




    XX.

    Sleep, that giv'st what Life denies,
    Shadowy bounties and supreme,
    Bring the dearest face that flies
    Following darkness like a dream!

    _Andrew Lang_.




    XXI.

    I have a lady as dear to me
    As the westward wind and shining sea,
    As breath of spring to the verdant lea,
    As lover's songs and young children's glee.

    Swiftly I pace thro' the hours of light,
    Finding no joy in the sunshine bright,
    Waiting 'till moon and far stars are white,
    Awaiting the hours of silent night.

    Swiftly I fly from the day's alarms,
    Too sudden desires, false joys and harms,
    Swiftly I fly to my loved one's charms,
    Praying the clasp of her perfect arms.

    Her eyes are wonderful, dark and deep,
    Her raven tresses a midnight steep,
    But, ah, she is hard to hold and keep--
    My lovely lady, my lady Sleep!

    _Leolyn Louise Everett_.




    XXII.

    Visit her, gentle Sleep! With wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
    May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
    Silent as tho' they watched the sleeping Earth!
    With light heart may she rise,
    Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
    Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice.

    _Samuel T. Coleridge_.




    XXIII.

    Sleep! king of gods and men!
    Come to my call again,
    Swift over field and fen,
         Mountain and deep:

    Come, bid the waves be still;
    Sleep, streams on height and hill;
    Beasts, birds and snakes, thy will
         Conquereth, Sleep!

    Come on thy golden wings,
    Come ere the swallow sings,
    Lulling all living things,
         Fly they or creep!

    Come with thy leaden wand,
    Come with thy kindly hand,
    Soothing on sea or land
         Mortals that weep

    Come from the cloudy west,
    Soft over brain and breast,
    Bidding the Dragon rest,
         Come to me, Sleep!

    _Andrew Lang_.




    XXIV.

    Sleep, death without dying--living without life.

    _Edwin Arnold_.




    XXV.

    She sleeps; her breathings are not heard
      In palace-chambers far apart,
    The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
      That he upon her charmed heart.

    She sleeps; on either hand upswells
      The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest;
    She sleeps, nor dreams but ever dwells
      A perfect form in perfect rest.

    _Alfred Tennyson_.




    XXVI.

    The hours are passing slow,
      I hear their weary tread
    Clang from the tower and go
      Back to their kinsfolk dead.
    Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
      Why dost thou scorn me so?
    The wind's voice overhead
      Long wakeful here I know,
    And music from the steep
      Where waters fall and flow.
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    All sounds that might bestow
      Rest on the fever'd bed,
    All slumb'rous sounds and low
      Are mingled here and wed,
    And bring no drowsihed.
      Shy dreams flit to and fro
    With shadowy hair dispread;
      With wistful eyes that glow
    And silent robes that sweep.
      Thou wilt not hear me; no?
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    What cause hast them to show
      Of sacrifice unsped?
    Of all thy slaves below
      I most have labored
    With service sung and said;
      Have cull'd such buds as blow,
    Soft poppies white and red,
      Where thy still gardens grow,
    And Lethe's waters weep.
      Why, then, art thou my foe?
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

    Prince, ere the dark be shred
      By golden shafts, ere low
    And long the shadows creep:
      Lord of the wand of lead,
    Soft footed as the snow,
    Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!

    _Andrew Lang_.




    XXVII.

    I have loved wind and light,
      And the bright sea,
    But, holy and most secret Night,
      Not as I love and have loved thee.

    God, like all highest things,
      Hides light in shade,
    And in the night his visitings
      To sleep and dreams are clearliest made.

    _Arthur Symons_.




    XXVIII.

    The peace of a wandering sky,
    Silence, only the cry
    Of the crickets, suddenly still,
    A bee on the window sill,
    A bird's wing, rushing and soft,
    Three flails that tramp in the loft,
    Summer murmuring
    Some sweet, slumberous thing,
    Half asleep:

    _Arthur Symons_.




    XXIX.

    Only a little holiday of sleep,
    Soft sleep, sweet sleep; a little soothing psalm
    Of slumber from thy sanctuaries of calm,
    A little sleep--it matters not how deep;
    A little falling feather from thy wing,
    Merciful Lord,--is it so great a thing?

    _Richard Le Gallienne_.




    XXX.

    A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
    One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
    Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
    Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky
    I have thought of all by turns and yet do lie
    Sleepless!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Come, blessed barrier between day and day.
    Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

    _William Wordsworth_.




    XXXI.

    Sleep is a reconciling,

    A rest that peace begets;
    Does not the sun rise smiling
    When fair at eve he sets'

    _Anonymous_.




    XXXII.

    The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own
      repose,
    The weary winds are silent or the moon is in the
      deep;
    Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean
      knows;

    Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its
      appointed sleep.

    _Percy Bysshe Shelley_.




    XXXIII.

         We lay
    Stretched upon fragrant heath and lulled by sound
    Of far-off torrents charming the still night,
    To tired limbs and over-busy thoughts
    Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness.

    _William Wordsworth_.




    XXXIV.

    There is sweet music here that softer falls
      Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
    Or night-dews on still waters between walls
      Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
    Music that gentlier on the spirit lies
      Than tired eye-lids upon tired eyes;
    Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
      Here are cool mosses deep,
    And thro' the mass the ivies creep,
      And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep.
    And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

    _Alfred Tennyson_.




    XXXV.

    I went into the deserts of dim sleep--
    That world which, like an unknown wilderness,
    Bounds this with its recesses wide and deep

    _Percy Bysshe Shelley_.




    XXXVI.

    Oh, Morpheus, my more than love, my life,
    Come back to me, come back to me! Hold out
    Your wonderful, wide arms and gather me
    Again against your breast. I lay above
    Your heart and felt its breathing firm and slow
    As waters that obey the moon and lo,
    Rest infinite was mine and calm. My soul
    Is sick for want of you. Oh, Morpheus,
    Heart of my weary heart, come back to me!

    _Leolyn Louise Everett_.




    XXXVII.

         Lips
    Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath
    Of innocent dreams arose.

    _Percy Bysshe Shelley_.




    XXXVIII.

    A late lark twitters in the quiet skies;
    And from the west,
    Where the sun, his day's work ended,
    Lingers in content,
    There falls on the old, gray city
    An influence luminous and serene,
    A shining peace.

    The smoke ascends
    In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
    Shine, and are changed. In the valley
    Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
    Closing his benediction,
    Sinks, and the darkening air
    Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
    Night with her train of stars
    And her great gift of sleep.

    _William Ernest Henley_.




    XXXIX.

    Oh, Sleep! it is a gentle thing
    Beloved from pole to pole!
    To Mary Queen the praise be given!
    She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
    That slid into my soul.

    _Samuel T. Coleridge_.




    XL.

    What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
    What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
    That stays one moment in an open flower,
    And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
    What is more tranquil than a musk rose blowing
    In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
    More healthful than the leanness of dales?
    More secret than a nest of nightingales?
    More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
    More full of visions than a high romance?
    What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
    Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
    Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
    Wreather of poppy buds and weeping willows!
    Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
    Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
    Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
    That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

    _John Keats_.




    XLI.

    My sleep had been embroidered with dim dreams,
    My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
    With flowers, and stirring shades of baffled beams.

    _John Keats_.




    XLII.

    Sleep is a blessed thing. All my long life
    I have known this, its value infinite
    To man, its symbol of the perfect peace
    That marks eternity, its marvellous
    Relief from all the vanities and wounds,
    The little battles and unrest of soul
    That we call life.
         Sleep is a blessed thing,
    Doubly it has been taught me. All the time
    I cannot have you, all the heart-sick days
    Of utter yearning, of eternal ache
    Of longing, longing for the sight of you,
    Fade and dissolve at night and you are mine,
    At least in dreams, at least in blessed dreams.

    _Leolyn Louise Everett_.




    XLIII.

    Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
      In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay
    Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
      Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
    Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day,
      Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain,
    Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
      Blended alike from sunshine and from rain,
      As though a rose could shut and be a bud again.

    _John Keats_.




    XLIV.

    O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,
    That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
    'Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd
    Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key
    To golden palaces, strange ministrelsy,
    Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
    Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves
    And moonlight, aye, to all the mazy world
    Of silvery enchantment!--who, upfurl'd
    Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour
    But renovates and lives?

    _John Keats_.




    XLV.

         A sleep
    Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing.

    _John Keats_.




    XLVI.

    Now is the blackest hour of the long night,
    The soul of midnight. Now, the pallid stars
    Shine in the highest silver and the wind
    That creepeth chill across the sleeping world
    Holdeth no hint of morning. I look out
    Into the glory of the night with tired,
    Wide, sleepless eyes and think of you. There is
    The hush of some great spirit o'er the earth.
    Here, in the silence earth and sky are met
    And merged into infinity. Oh, God
    Of all, Thou who beholdest Destiny
    As simple, Thou who understandest life
    From birth to re-birth, who knows all our souls,
    Grant her Thy perfect benediction, rest.

    _Leolyn Louise Everett_.